


Down To Your Bones

by Ellie5192



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, pre-proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s not entirely sure how he managed to become Ass Number One, he just knows that he did, and now Jim Harper wants him severely injured and Mackenzie is hurting"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down To Your Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lilacmermaid25, because work is boring and these two are not.  
> I’m borrowing a style from simplyprologue (ofhouseadama) that brilliantly uses many brackets to tell the story. To see how this style is actually supposed to be effective, go and read all of her stuff. (In fact, do that anyway)  
> Pre-proposal Prompt: Will makes a callous joke because he somehow never knew about the stabbing.

**Down To Your Bones**

****

He’s not entirely sure how he managed to become Ass Number One, he just knows that he did, and now Jim Harper wants him severely injured and Mackenzie is hurting – _aching_ – more than he’s ever deliberately tried to affect himself. There is a difference between using her mistake against her like a child and causing _that look_ to crawl across her features like her insides have combust all at the same moment. Or maybe he really is just Ass Number One and there’s no difference and all his own emotional bullshit problems are coming up with excuses for his behaviour.

They were arguing. He knows that much. They were arguing about Genoa (again) and about Mac leading the interview (which, okay, the argument can be made that she did, but only if we’re talking a blind source; the details she gave away are barely relevant given what they thought this guy had been involved in. After all, you don’t start an interview with Bill Clinton asking ‘are you involved in politics at all’.

Or maybe you do.

But then maybe Will’s just biased about the whole thing. He lumped her fair share on her head and nothing more; gave her exactly what she deserved and not a penny over, and okay he knows this is just ridiculous now, all of them competing for the Biggest Fuck-Up of the Year Award in the race to be fired by Leona, but -)

They had been arguing in her office, and then she’d rolled her eyes and he’d followed her out to the bullpen, and she’d rounded on him, right there in front of them all (or at least half of them all, because it was lunchtime). They’d been screaming, and then quietly screaming, and then just forceful, and quite frankly he is furious and in pain, but if he has to hear Mackenzie take the fall one more time…

_“How does it feel, huh?”_

_“You need to fucking stop this”_

_“How does it feel, Will, to know that I screwed up this badly-”_

_“It feels like you took a rusty knife to my gutt, twisted it a little, and then pulled it out and left me in the street to bleed to death. There, you happy?”_

Except of course she wasn’t happy. She practically crumbled right in front of his face; he’s an idiot, not blind, he can see real and honest terror when it’s in front of him. (He of all people.)  Jim had run over – dear sweet Jim, who more often than not sends scowls across the room instead of saying what he really thinks – and he had taken Mac in his arms, and for the first time Will had seen what Mac saw in him (“ _What the fuck is wrong with you?”_ ). Will had seen the young boy who had successfully navigated through a warzone as her right-hand-man.

(A warzone. Shit)

And Mac. Mac had tried to push Jim away, to cover it up, to ignore the fact that she was subconsciously clutching at her stomach and tears were in her eyes and she was breathing so hard he was afraid she’d send herself into a panic attack. Mac, who had been _physically and mentally exhausted_ when she’d come home and these days was looking more and more like death warmed up. Mac, who he knows doesn’t sleep well at the best of times, who has bags under her eyes and a shirt that’s now half a size too big.

(Oh sweet shit.)

 _“He doesn’t know”_ she was whispering to Jim, pushing him away, reassurance and bravado in one breath. _“Jim, enough, stop”_

_“Doesn’t know what? What don’t I know?”_

Never mind Genoa, right now he wants every last detail of what that fucking country did to her; he wants to know what the fuck he just said that caused that reaction. She’s desperate to get Jim away from him, and to cover up her pain, and since when were they like this? It’s been well over a goddamn year since he found out she never got the voicemail, and they’ve become best friends again since then, and he’s trying – he really _really_ wants to forgive her because he’s almost there he can feel it – and why the _fuck_ didn’t she tell him (again).

(There is no _waiting for the right time_ with stuff like this Mackenzie, he will say later.)

_“Jim, go, sit back down, go”_

And he went, because standing up for Mackenzie comes second only to listening to Mackenzie. But Will still feels about two feet tall. Jim glares at him the whole way, and once he’s out of striking range – before Mac can escape again – Will grabs her by the arm and pulls her into the nearest office (his) and closes the door. He’s got that frown on his face, the one that sort of looks angry but really is just a mix of confused and worried and scared. (He generally defaults to anger with those things anyway. Confused and worried doesn’t stop you getting hit. Confused and worried doesn’t pick up a bottle and hit back.)

“What was that?” he asks, glad that his voice at least sounds sincere.

“It’s nothing, it’s-”

“Don’t fucking give me that, what was that, what did I say?”

“Will, don’t, just drop-”

“If you tell me to drop it I swear I will _drop_ my shit”

She won’t look at him – has her arms folded tight around the folder in her hands, and finds the floor particularly interesting, and she’s shuffling, so she’s sheepish not furious (and hey, that’s a start.)

“Mac” he whispers. This time his voice is positively tender. “Please. Talk to me”

( _“Mac, talk to me, I need you in my ear for this. It’s going to be alright. We’ll be alright”_

_“Let’s just get through this retraction first, Will, before we start drawing any optimistic conclusions for the future”_

_“I need you for this”_

_“I’m here, Billy. I’m right here. You and me. You’ve got ten- nine-  eight-”_ )

Mac finally looks at him, sighing to herself, because it was only a matter of time before this happened really, and after all it’s not exactly a giant secret to keep. It’s just a flesh wound, as her father would say. Not that he said that at the time, of course (clutching her hand in a German hospital), but he would say it in different circumstances for sure.

“Come with me” she says quietly, resigned. She takes his hand in hers and pulls him towards his bathroom, glancing briefly out through the glass window. Jim is still staring them down, and a couple of people have returned with their lunch and are sitting at their desks. He follows her into the bathroom and frowns as she closes the door and puts her folder on his sink. Then she’s untucking her shirt and rolling up the hem, and he’s very confused, and oh good lord no, please don’t be what-

She stands straight and tall in front of him, her hands holding her shirt, her stomach bare. A long, red, angry scar runs across it – puckered and jagged in a way that speaks to blunt knives and field medics. He feels bile rise in the back of his throat.

“Jim was the one who pulled me out of the riot” she says. He can easily fill in the blanks himself; he knows what ‘embedded’ looks like in the Middle East. But honestly, one day he’s going to demand the full story because the images that his over-active imagination are conjuring up are so graphic that the bile is starting to taste like acid. She doesn’t flinch when he reaches out one hand and his fingers trace gently over it, memorising its exact contours.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers, placing his palm flat against her – hoping to instil some kind of warmth through his touch.

“When it’s freezing cold it throbs a little. But no, it doesn’t hurt anymore”

He drops his hands away as she tugs the shirt back down again, tucking it back into her skirt as she watches his face. He’s still looking at her stomach – at where he imagines the scar to be under her clothes. He won’t meet her eye.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. He doesn’t sound accusatory, just sad. Maybe that’s worse.

“And say what?” ( _I threw myself into combat with the hope of forgetting all about you and all I got was this stupid scar_ , a song by Panic Boy [or whatever the hell they’re called].

‘I fucked it up so spectacularly that I kind of like my reminder’. Isn’t there another song about that by some Australian singer? And what does it matter anyway, lots of people have scars far worse than hers. Lots of people never come back. But she did.)

“Mac-”

“It’s okay, Billy” she whispers, taking hold of his hand and ducking her head to meet his eye.

“It is far from okay” he says. His grip tightens, perhaps just a little desperate. He’s still standing close in her space. (He only ever wanted to hurt her, not kill her. That counts for something, doesn’t it? That makes a difference, surely. _Someone would have to be torturing you_. Maybe not.

God, he deserves to be Asshole Number One.)

“Come on, we’ve got more important things to go worry about today” she says lightly, her lips quirking up, her head jerking towards where their people are trying to piece together a decent show despite the Sword of Dantana hanging over them all. It’s not quite a smile from her, but it’s a valiant effort. She picks up her folder with one hand, grabs the door handle with the other.

“You’re important” he says. Her shoulders move just a little before she turns her head to look at him. He can’t read the expression on her face; it might be disbelief, it might be relief, it might just be confusion. “You are important” he says again.

She nods at him once. “So are you”

And maybe she was never the broken one at all. Battered and bruised, scarred, but not broken. (He needs to set his brain, splint his heart, and finally let himself heal. But it’s been so long – they’ll probably have to re-break his bones to set them in shape again. That’s what you get for hobbling around on twisted limbs for six years, refusing to see a doctor.)

“Remind me to buy Jim something really nice that he’ll really like, and maybe give him a pay rise before Leona kicks us out of here”

“Make him your best man or something” she jokes, her tongue against her teeth, back to her old self for just a moment. He just huffs in amusement, not disagreeing. She doesn’t mean anything by it.

They walk out together, side by side, her arms around her folder and his hands in his pockets. The two o’clock rundown is set to start in a few minutes, and people are filing back in. Jim seems to have finally let his guard down and is chatting to Kendra about something. He shoots Will a warning look as they pass, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge them. (Maggie interrupts them, forceful in a way she wasn’t before, which breaks Will’s heart.) One day he’s gonna find the courage to thank that boy for everything he did; the spectacular ways he saved Will’s life.

(Broken, maybe, but healing. Getting there. They are all marked in their different ways.)

**Author's Note:**

> P.S: The Australian song is Scar by Missy Higgins. “So that I do remember to never go that far would you leave me with a scar”


End file.
